


Better the Devil You Know

by PantyDragon



Category: Forgotten Realms, The Legend of Drizzt Series - R. A. Salvatore
Genre: BDSM, Consensual Non-Consent, I'm going to mention that I use the word fuck since that seems to disagree with some people, Light Bondage, M/M, PWP, Rape Roleplay, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-04-01 14:23:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4023193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PantyDragon/pseuds/PantyDragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Is this your way of trying to work through something?" Jarlaxle asks thoughtfully, "Because I will not be pulled into some elaborate personal experiment.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better the Devil You Know

**Author's Note:**

> I seem to have unknowingly filled an anonymous prompt (late October 2014) on the FR Kinkmeme by writing this, as I've now been informed, but the concept and format were shamelessly borrowed from a Dragon Age: Inquisition fic called "Game" by somniari. That one is better than this one, to be honest, but it worked so effectively when applied to Artemis and Jarlaxle that I just couldn't help myself.

Artemis braces his bare feet against the floor and slams his shoulder back hard against the wooden post, but yet again it refuses to budge. He is breathing heavily now, after his fourth attempt, but the leather strap that binds his hands behind his back remains looped firmly beneath the foot of the bedpost. The bonds are tied so as to give him a few centimeters of slack between his wrists, and the knots would not have been tight enough to hurt on their own, but Artemis has pulled them so hard in his quiet struggling that his fingers have gone cold for lack of blood. He tips his head back against the post, takes a breath, and struggles to pull himself together for another try, but he is already beginning to tire.

He gives a slight start at the sound of footsteps beyond the door and quickly rearranges the set of his thighs, knowing that if he should need to throw a kick, there are angles he can work with, even in his compromised position.

The door clicks loudly in the still air but he can hear his own heart beating in the silence that follows. It seems to take eons to open, and Artemis is fighting to keep his body still and tensed and ready by the time his captor actually steps inside.

Artemis is momentarily taken aback by the sight of the drow: lavishly-dressed and visibly armed, as self-assured as any creature Artemis has ever seen, but the crimson eyes are what go right to Artemis’s gut. There is a familiar mischievousness there, but veiled with a calculated, dangerous gleam of absolute authority, a hunger for power that drow are born and bred for.

Artemis squirms as those eyes rake over him, his heart hammers harder in his chest, and he very nearly calls it off then and there.

* * *

 

  _“Is this your way of trying to work through something?” Jarlaxle asks thoughtfully, leaning back just a bit on Artemis’s bed and crossing his legs. “Because I will not be pulled into some elaborate personal experiment.”_

_“Whatever it is, whatever it isn’t,” Artemis growls, very deliberately looking out the darkened window instead of at Jarlaxle. “I will have it, and treacherous and insufferable as you may be, my options are limited. I am not about to pluck some whore off the street.”_

_Jarlaxle subdues a smile. That’s almost a compliment, by Artemis’s standards. “I am…willing,” the drow says after a long pause, “but we do this the right way or not at all.”_

_“And what is the ‘right way’?” Artemis demands, his voice low and laced with the sort of trepidation he finds easy to disguise as rage._

_“With failsafes,” Jarlaxle explains, pushing up onto his elbow and raising one slender brow. “And planning. There are precedents for this sort of thing, you know.”_

_Artemis tips his head forward and rubs his hand hard over his eyes, “just like you to make this fucking complicated.”_

_“Do uncomplicate it for me, if you please,” Jarlaxle replies dryly, “it seems a complicated matter to begin with, but evidently I am missing something.”_

_Artemis takes several impatient, hard-edged breaths and rests his hand back against the windowsill, his jaw tense._

_“For starters,” Jarlaxle presses, “I have some conditions of my own.”_

* * *

 

 A warm glint creeps into the drow’s eyes as he smiles, and the tremors in Artemis’s stomach calm – not entirely but just enough. The door snaps shut.

“I bet my lieutenant five gold that you would have managed to at least move the bed a little by the time I came up here,” he purrs, “seems I have overestimated you.”

“So you hope, at least,” Artemis says in an unconvincingly shaky attempt at a deadpan.

The drow laughs and takes off his plumed hat to set it on the chest of drawers. With one hand resting on his belt, he slowly closes the distance between himself and Artemis, stopping just outside the kicking range of Artemis’s unbound feet and sinking into a crouch. “Try to pull yourself free,” he whispers, “go on, give it everything you have.”

Artemis’s teeth press firmly together and he takes a slow, steady breath. He does not move.

“Why so compliant suddenly?” The drow asks, regaining his full height and circling around to Artemis’s hip, infuriatingly close but at an angle where Artemis can’t retaliate. He moves as carefully as a snake charmer. “Ah. You think your skin is just dark enough that I cannot see how flushed you really are. You are too accustomed to deceiving other humans, I think.” With a feather-light touch, he reaches down and runs his fingertips over the warm flesh of Artemis’s neck. Artemis jerks away viciously.

“Why am I here?” Artemis demands, “I have nothing you could possibly want, besides a few scraps of obsolete information, and there is nothing you can gain from that, even if I were to give it to you.”

The drow laughs again and pulls a spindly chair from its place near the window to sit facing his captive. “What is your name?” He asks.

Artemis sneers.

“That’s terribly rude of you.”

“Go fuck yourself, drow.”

He laughs again, and quite genuinely, to Artemis’s frustration. “Why do you insist on being such bad company, hm? I am only asking as a courtesy, you understand. My psionist has already had his turn with you, though I am not surprised you do not remember, as his is an _exceptional_ talent. Everything that you profess to be so useless to me has already poured from your lips like a song. If it is any consolation, he reported that you were harder than average to break.”

Artemis shudders slightly at the notion, but determinedly maintains eye contact, “Then why am I still here?”

The drow tilts his head, and his gaze trails down Artemis’s throat to the open collar of his shirt. “Because now I get my turn.”

Artemis scoffs. Some quiet, unshakable part of him knows what his captor intends, but a far larger part is not yet willing to consider that possibility.

“If you play nice,” the drow adds quietly, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, “I shall play nice, understand? My name is Jarlaxle, now you tell me yours.”

“I know you would rather torture it out of me, so why bother to ask?” He snarls, “Spare me your play-niceties, you jackal.”

Jarlaxle tilts his head slightly further, a gesture that somehow manages to look threatening. “Fine. Have it your way.”

Artemis balks slightly when Jarlaxle stands, kicks the chair backward a few inches, and unfastens his belt. From a drow he expected more taunting, more subtlety (he bites down on his own tongue for allowing he word ‘foreplay’ to cross his mind). Jarlaxle fishes the belt out of its loops, but as he does so it…animates. Slithers like a living thing through his fingers, down onto the bare planks, and – before Artemis can even think to pull his feet away, it weaves itself in a figure-eight around his ankles and tightens, snapping his legs together.

Artemis shouts and struggles to wrench free, but the damnable thing actually tightens further as he moves. Jarlaxle draws the knife he’d been keeping on his hip, tosses the sheath aside, and stands astride Artemis’s thighs. Artemis tries to pull his knees up, but with the way the bonds force him to sit he doesn’t manage anything close to the kick he’d intended as Jarlaxle sinks to his knees and rests his body weight on Artemis’s lap.

Artemis tips his head back a little to keep his face as far from the drow as possible, but it’s hardly very effective. Jarlaxle lets his knees slide a little further apart, shifting forward so that his inner thighs hug Artemis’s hips. Through the soft leather of the drow’s trousers, Artemis can feel how warm his flesh is. Artemis’s pulse kicks up. He tells himself it’s the knife.

“Unlike many of my kind, human, I have little taste for idle torture,” the drow murmurs, slowly moving his weight around a little, setting the tip of the blade against his palm and spinning it a few times. “Inelegant business. Messy, boorish, I find nothing at all stimulating about the whole endeavor. However…I do have certain _other_ interests in you as a source of entertainment. I went to such trouble to acquire you, after all, it would be a shame not to use you to your fullest potential.”

Artemis lets out the slightest grunt of alarm, little more than a breath, when Jarlaxle leans forward against him and slides both hands behind Artemis’s back.

* * *

 

 

_“You cannot untie me,” Artemis protests, “Physical restraint was a rule.”_

_“Then think of a different starting position, because it will certainly be difficult to fuck you if you remain tied to something the whole time,” Jarlaxle replies matter-of-factly. “Not to mention the mess your shoulders will be afterward.”_

_Artemis shakes his head and chews at his thumbnail, an old habit he has picked up again lately. “If I am able to move I will retaliate. Keep my arms tied or immobilize me some other way, if you prefer, I know you have tricks.”_

_Jarlaxle sighs. “Magical paralysis is far over the line. I do have an idea, but I am not certain you will like it.”_

_Artemis pauses for a while, still biting at his nail. “So go on.” He says venomously._

_“How do you feel about electricity?” Jarlaxle asks uncertainly._

_It takes a perceptive eye to catch Artemis blanching but Jarlaxle does not miss it. "Not much,” Jarlaxle explains quickly, “a mild shock, quick, barely enough to disorient you.”_

_“Not in my range of experience,” Artemis replies, and Jarlaxle is relieved that it is not an outright ‘no’._

_“Let me try it, on your arm or your hand. To rule it out if nothing else.”_

_Artemis pauses, then spits “Fine.”_

* * *

 

Artemis feels the smooth edge of the knife brush painlessly along the heel of his hand, then catch under the strap. He feels a tug, then the pull on his wrists relaxes completely. His first instinct is to fight back, but when he tries to bring up a punch, a wave of pain rolls down his cramped shoulder and the drow catches his fist with ease. The knife thuds to the floor; from a hidden pocket somewhere Jarlaxle produces instead a smooth, black wand and presses it beneath Artemis’s chin. Artemis feels a snap of electricity dance over his skin where it touches him.

“Do that again,” the drow warns coolly, “and I make you swallow your tongue, understand?”

Artemis clenches his teeth hard and seethes, but he can barely feel his fingers and his shoulders are burning with fatigue. If he were to throw his weight over he could probably dislodge Jarlaxle from his lap, but with his ankles tied he would never get very far. It’s a losing battle and he decides that he can bide his time. At the very least, he pulls back his numb fingertips so they don’t inadvertently touch Jarlaxle’s splayed-out knees on the floor.

The wand disappears back whence it came, and the knife is likewise snatched away the moment Artemis dares to glance at it, but when Jarlaxle leans closer and takes Artemis’s chin delicately between his thumb and forefinger, Artemis decides he’d have preferred the wand.

“You have lighter eyes than most Calishites,” the drow remarks softly as Artemis tries very hard to turn away and yet appear determinedly unfazed. A difficult prospect.

“What of it?” Artemis snaps.

A slow smile spreads across Jarlaxle’s face. “Are you sure you are so eager to dispense with the pleasantries? I intend to take my time either way, and I do so love a conversationalist.” Without waiting for a reply, Jarlaxle gets to his feet, curls one fist in the loose fabric of Artemis’s shirt, and drags him upright. Struggling to balance himself, Artemis braces one prickling hand clumsily against the bedpost and rests the other on Jarlaxle’s forearm.

“If you have reconsidered about telling me your name,” Jarlaxle croons, his mouth close enough that Artemis can feel the warmth of his breath, “now would be a good time to stall, don’t you think? Seems a pity for all this to be so impersonal.”

Artemis makes a slight, strained sound but says nothing. Jarlaxle shoves him backward onto the bed and holds him down firmly against the mattress.

The truth of what this drow intends to do with him only now becomes truly vivid, truly undeniable, as he gazes up from the flat of his back, sheets bunching up beneath him. They’re expensive sheets, he happens to notice, about to take the rank of perhaps the second-nicest sheets he’s ever been violated on. How momentous. He writhes bitterly and lets a frustrated scream escape between his teeth.

“Struggle if you want,” Jarlaxle says, with an air of mocking reassurance, “I doubt I would ever grow tired of watching you.”

Artemis’s sensibilities rail against one another; it burns him to give his captor something he so obviously enjoys, yet he cannot will himself to lie still and accept humiliation such as this. He kicks out hard and tries to shove Jarlaxle’s hand away, more out of stubbornness than out of any real hope of escaping, but Jarlaxle turns deftly aside without releasing his grip, then pulls himself up onto the bed. He jams a knee into Artemis’s thigh to help keep him still and pulls out the wand again.

A warm, jarring jolt erupts through Artemis’s side and consumes his whole body: not nearly enough to incapacitate him, but certainly more than the little zap beneath the chin. A sterner warning. He groans softly as the pain fades into a soft hum and Jarlaxle takes the opportunity to pin him down more effectively, straddling his thighs again and pressing one of his wrists into the bed.

“Get off me,” Artemis snarls, shoving against Jarlaxle’s chest with his one free hand, but his coordination is still far from perfect. The bonds did more damage than he had realized.

“Ask nicely,” Jarlaxle replies, “That will not persuade me, but you need practice saying the word ‘please.’ You will be saying it again before the night is out.”

Artemis tries vehemently to arch up his body and push Jarlaxle off. The drow is a bit smaller than he is, after all, even restrained he could manage it, but he feels the cool tip of the wand touch just below his navel, and again the vicious bloom of electricity shoots through him. He tenses up for a heady split-second, then collapses onto the mattress with a faint moan.

“I am no longer certain if I am punishing you or rewarding you,” Jarlaxle remarks with a smile, “Whatever the case, you are making a beautiful show of it.”

Another little tinge kisses his skin, and Artemis flinches as he feels the jolt turn to a gentle pulse in his groin. His next long, slow breaths do nothing to quell the heat rising in his blood.

“Put your arms behind your back,” Jarlaxle demands, “you know what happens if you refuse.”

Slowly, grudgingly, Artemis shifts his shoulders and laces his fingers together beneath him, not because he fears the pain of another shock – they were hardly unbearable - but because he is determined not to let his tentative erection become any more obvious than it already is. The enchanted belt uncoils from his ankles, creeps up his leg, and works its way tightly around his wrists. He knows that there are only so many reasons Jarlaxle could want his legs unbound. He clenches his jaw.

“So you are not one for conversation,” the drow remarks with a sigh, pulling himself up onto his knees and allowing Artemis to move his legs a bit, “I shall have to find another use for your mouth.”

“Don’t you dare, you son of a bitch, don’t you fucking _dare_ ,” Artemis rages, bracing his feet on the mattress and twisting as far backward as he can manage before Jarlaxle shocks him again, hard. He can’t think of a god to blaspheme to as his heart jumps into his throat, but he shouts a baseless curse for good measure, because _seven hells_ the adrenaline in his blood feels dizzyingly good. He almost doesn’t care if Jarlaxle knows he’s hard. Almost. He bends his knees to keep the fabric of his trousers from tenting.

Jarlaxle – still kneeling astride Artemis’s ribs – pulls his shirt over his head and begins deftly unlacing his fly with one hand, the other drops the wand onto the sheets and closes gently but firmly on Artemis’s chin.

“I would warn you not to bite me,” Jarlaxle adds, his voice low and just a little breathy, “but I do not think you would, threat or no.” The drow leans down and kisses him, forcefully, and Artemis is caught so off guard that he practically melts into it, even letting Jarlaxle’s tongue brush past his lips. By the time Jarlaxle pulls back it’s too late, he’s more than made his point and he knows it. Artemis snarls. He wants nothing more than to cut that mocking tongue right out of his mouth.

Artemis cannot turn his head freely in Jalaxle’s grip. He manages to glance away as the drow slides a hand into his trousers and works himself up, but the slight, unabashed catch in Jarlaxle’s breath paints a vivid enough picture.

“Don’t.” Artemis hisses again, his voice shakier than it had been a moment ago. He feels a bit lightheaded, maybe from the shock, he can’t be sure.

“What would you rather I do?” Jarlaxle teases, releasing Artemis’s face and planting his hand on the sheets above his captive’s head, settling his hips lower and leaning his body forward. “I can be very creative.”

“ _Don’t._ ”

“Hush…Open your mouth.”

* * *

 

T _hese requests should be a staggering thing to hear, from Artemis Entreri of all people; they should astound him. Jarlaxle muses on this thought with each sentence from Artemis’s lips, yet his fascination far outweighs his surprise. Artemis describes his scenario – what he refers to as “the arrangement” – with the sort of precise, intimate detail that Jarlaxle would never have imagined him capable of, but he does not speak as one speaks to a lover. His demands (and they are demands, for he explicitly forbids input of any kind form Jarlaxle until he has finished with them) are delivered in the tone of a ransom message or a terms of surrender: exact, uncompromising, and tense to the point of frigidity._

_“You may verbally condescend to me, but do not infantilize me, or call me anything akin to a term of endearment.”_

_“Nothing goes in me that is not a part of you. No foreign objects.”_

_“You will assume, when speaking to me, that I have never done this before.”_

_“No speaking in Drow.”_

_As he enumerates it becomes obvious just how much time he has spent considering this, and Jarlaxle absorbs it all in rapt, obedient silence._

_“Your answers are yes or no,” Artemis says finally, flatly, “that’s all. If yes we discuss this further, if no we never speak of it again, this conversation never happened, understand?”_

_The shallow lines between Jarlaxle’s eyebrows show plainly enough just how displeased he is with those options, and he holds Artemis’s hard gaze for a moment just to make his position clear. He should say no. He has reservations, he has questions, and he has conditions of his own, and yet…a whole side of the puzzle box that is Artemis Entreri has fallen open in his hands, and the temptation to look inside is overwhelming. Finally, with a sigh and a slight frown, he replies simply “Yes.”_

* * *

 

 Something low in Artemis’s stomach twists and tightens and floods his body with heat as Jarlaxle’s cock fills his mouth. The drow is not even cruel about it, which makes Artemis’s minimal resistance all the more humiliating. In the midst of guiding himself Jarlaxle runs his thumb tenderly along Artemis’s lower lip, and the condescension of that touch hits him hard. He knows his face must be warm and that, somehow, is even worse. He presses his eyes shut, squirms, and groans softly in frustration, but he can manage little else.

“Not so terrible as all that, is it?” Jarlaxle murmurs, running his slender fingers through Aremis’s short hair. “Tip your chin back, let me feel your tongue.”

Artemis struggles to breathe but remains as still as possible.

“This will be over faster if you work at it,” Jarlaxle adds softly, smiling slightly as he pushes further into Artemis’s mouth, feeling his flinch and the tightening in his throat as he struggles not to gag. “Try to relax, at least,” he croons.

When Jarlaxle tugs on his hair, Artemis allows his head to tilt back a little, and although his throat burns to hear the faint sounds of pleasure Jarlaxle makes at his expense, it is at least easier to breathe. When Jarlaxle tightens his grip and thrusts again, Artemis manages to take it without gagging this time.

“Perfect,” Jarlaxle pants appreciatively, “have you done this before or are you just a fast learner?” Jarlaxle interrupts himself with a slight gasp, then moves his hand to the nape of Artemis’s neck. “I could make you an expert in short order. Come on then, a _little_ tongue…would it be such a blow to your dignity at this point? Look at yourself.”

Why exactly those words make Artemis painfully hard is something he doesn’t care to contemplate, but before he can tell himself how very perverse it is, he presses the flat of his tongue obediently along the underside of Jarlaxle’s cock. Jarlaxle lets out a sharp, breathless “ah” and thrusts deep enough to make Artemis’s throat tighten up all over again.

The drow is not wrong, Artemis has never been had quite like this before: flat on his back, pinned down and tied up to have his mouth fucked. It’s constraining, somehow much more personal than being on his knees. He feels controlled, he feels used, but it’s the way Jarlaxle touches his skin and pets his hair and whispers praise to him that makes him feel powerless.

Finally, Jarlaxle slides back and lets Artemis recover. He coughs twice, then draws in a slow, tremulous gasp, his throat and jaw aching slightly. His hair is damp with sweat and he can feel Jarlaxle’s eyes on him as he licks the saliva off his lips.

The drow moves backward and leans in to kiss him again, and Artemis at least tries to turn away this time, but there is nowhere he can go. Jarlaxle holds his jaw and kisses him, and he hates himself for allowing it, hates how fucking gentle the drow is.

“Just finish, you bastard,” he growls as Jarlaxle releases him, and when he hears how much like a plea it sounds beneath the trembling in his voice, his stomach burns with humiliation.

“After knowing so little of you? What a waste that would be.” The drow climbs off Artemis’s chest and settles on the mattress, supporting himself on his left hand, and resting his right idly on his cock. “So. Either I untie you and you undress yourself – which I would like very much – or you stay bound and I undress you – which _you_ will not like at all. Take your pick.”

Artemis swallows hard and responds through clenched teeth. “What makes you think I will just _roll over_ for you…”

Jarlaxle laughs softly, "The sounds you just made with my cock in your mouth, for starters,” he coos, “If you could not even pretend to hate that, I am curious to see how else your will might fail, if pushed.”

“I am going to tear your fucking heart out,” Artemis seethes.

“Is that a ‘no’ to undressing yourself then?”

* * *

 

  _“We need a signal word.”_

_“What for?”_

_“In case either of us wants to stop. A…” a term comes to him in Drow, but the proper equivalent in Common escapes him for a moment, “_ natha ka’lith xan’ss _,” he mutters to himself as he considers how best to phrase it._

 _Artemis’s head snaps up. Of course, in his limited lexicon of Drow, that would be one word he can translate directly. “A_ mercy _word?” He demands._

_“That was…not what I meant,” Jarlaxle explains, exasperated. “Drow do not play this game, you must understand. At least, drow do not ask permission. This is different.”_

_“I don’t need a word.”_

_“There will be a word, whether you want it or not.”_

_“Let it be_ ka’lith _then,” Artemis mutters, almost mockingly._

_“A drow word?” Jarlaxle asks doubtfully, “and you will remember? Under duress?”_

_“I will remember.” Artemis says firmly, “but I will not use it.”_

_“If I do something you hate, you will use it. I told you I had conditions; this is one. And if I become convinced that you are lying to yourself about what you can and cannot tolerate, I will put a stop to it myself, so you might as well use the word.”_

_It takes Artemis a while to agree, but Jarlaxle feels an unexpected thrill of anticipation when he does. He chews the edge of his tongue._

_This was supposed to be Artemis’s game, not his. He was meant to be an accessory. Yet the more they discuss it, the more enthralled Jarlaxle finds himself, and he is now willfully trying to keep that response in check. He is not fond of the idea that he might secretly enjoy inflicting abuse like this. He has never considered himself a kind person, certainly, but he has long held the notion that he is – in some respects – better than his heritage, and torture…sexual torture, especially of humans, is practically expected amongst drow. It hits a little too close to home._

_“I will not draw blood, or strike you.” He lists his own conditions with less rigidity than Artemis had listed his, but he is no less resolute. “No gags, I want you able to speak if necessary, and before we go on, I take issue with one of your conditions.”_

_“The conditions are what they are.”_

_“The ‘no prep’ rule…”_

_“How could that possibly be unclear?” Artemis snaps._

_“How long has it been?”_

_‘That is not your concern.”_

_“I could easily harm you.”_

_Artemis scoffs. “Don’t flatter yourself.”_

_Jarlaxle scowls._

_“I know what I’m doing.”_

_Jarlaxle continues to scowl._

_“I don’t need you for that. No coddling, no pleasantries.”_

_“I could just…”_

_“No.”_

* * *

 

 “Untie me then,” Artemis snaps, “If it makes such a fucking difference to you.”

Jarlaxle sits up a bit and smirks. He reaches out and slides the heel of his hand firmly over the obvious bulge between Artemis’s legs. Artemis flinches and recoils from the touch as much as he is able. “Ask nicely.”

“That is what _you_ wanted, you cur.”

“Yes, but I want you to ask for it more. I am fickle like that.”

“ _Untie me._ ”

“…Please.”

Artemis swallows hard, mustering up as much mockery and derision as he can force into a single word.

“ _Please_.”

It’s as though the floor has fallen out of his voice; the word comes out reedy and simpering and the sting of it in his stomach is unbearable.

Jarlaxle smiles wickedly, then reaches for the wand he had left on the sheets. Artemis is so incensed it takes him a moment to realize that the strap around his wrists has gone slack and begun to uncoil.

“No need to rush,” Jarlaxle adds, getting to his feet, leaning one hand against the bedpost and looming over his captive, “Make it worth watching, or I will.”

Artemis flexes out his shoulders until he is lying flat on the bed, opening and closing his fists a few times. He is not in as bad of shape as he had feared, and almost immediately potential means of retaliation begin to seep into his thoughts. He then makes the mistake of glancing up at Jarlaxle, and when he sees the cool, voracious way the drow is watching him, his momentary relief at being unbound evaporates.

The prospect of undressing for someone who is about to forcibly debase him is proving more difficult to swallow than he had imagined.

He grits his teeth and pulls his shirt up in the most callous way he can manage, but the cramping in his shoulders slows him down. He lets out a sharp, pained breath. At least the insufferable span of time it takes him to pull his shirt over his head gives him a reprieve from Jarlaxle’s gaze.

Artemis glares up at the bare beams of the ceiling as his fingers begin to pull out the laces on his trousers. He gets through two eyelets before a floorboard creaks slightly and he freezes. Jarlaxle plants a hand on the bed and leans over him. “Look at me.”

Artemis’s jaw clenches and he glares up at Jarlaxle with hard, acidic contempt. His hands fall still.

“I did not say stop.”

Artemis doesn’t know why he is breathing so hard, but his fingers have gone clumsy on the laces. He glances down to reorient himself, but Jarlaxle grips his jaw again and holds his face still.

“You do not take direction especially well,” the drow scolds quietly, “Not for lack of motivation, I hope.”

Artemis does not feel the wand touch him, but he hears it buzz and crackle softly in Jarlaxle’s other hand. It’s a reminder he doesn’t need. He clenches his teeth and struggles to hold Jarlaxle’s eyes as he makes unbearably slow progress with his fly. His gaze falters and slips to something on the wall or ceiling more than once, but even in those fractions of an instant, he can feel Jarlaxle watching him, his eyes as steady as his grip.

Finally, Artemis’s trousers fall loose around his waist. He lifts his hips up off the bed, but his hands bunch up the fabric and then halt abruptly. He breaks eye contact again, struck by the cool air on his bare skin, by that inch that made the difference between defiance and dread.

A few still, painful heartbeats later Jarlaxle slowly releases his jaw. Artemis draws a full, shaky breath and turns to look determinedly at the wall, but tenses up again when he feels Jarlaxle’s palm brushing down his bare stomach.

He gasps sharply as Jarlaxle’s hand slides beneath his waistband and cossets him eagerly. Grimacing and shivering at once, he throws out a hand to try to push the drow back. His attempts to struggle against the ticking manage only to work his trousers further down his thighs. Jarlaxle holds the humming tip of the wand firmly to Artemis’s ribs, and as the drow’s palm works slowly back and forth he hushes Artemis quietly, patronizingly, as though he is a startled animal.

“You hardly need my help, do you?” Jarlaxle remarks scathingly, tightening his grip just a bit, and though Artemis still fiercely refuses to look at him, he knows the drow is grinning. “You need not lie to yourself, you know. After you have left here, if you tell anyone at all, you can tell them you fought tooth and nail every moment. They would believe you. I am the one unconvinced.”

Jarlaxle gives him a light snap from the wand, and Artemis reflexively pushes his hips up, pressing his cock harder into Jaralxle’s hand. He breathes a short, defeated groan as he relaxes back onto the mattress, his skin buzzing and his head cloudy.

Jarlaxle kneels on the bed and pulls Artemis’s trousers the last few inches off his feet onto the floor. “Turn over.”

“No,” the word catches a little in Artemis’s throat, but he remains where he is.

“I can have you on your back, if you like it that way.”

Artemis takes a slow breath but says nothing. When Jarlaxle strokes him again he moans softly, too disoriented to try to stop himself.

“Turn over.”

He obeys; gritting his teeth, bunching his fists into the sheets, and exhaling hard, very aware of how the smooth fabric feels on his cock, and trying to pretend that Jarlaxle’s hand did not feel far better. He flinches when Jarlaxle’s palm runs tenderly over the small of his back.

The drow takes a hard grip on each of Artemis’s hips and guides him backward, forcing him to arch his back and spread his knees. Artemis knows how obscene he must look, and he does not need to see the way Jarlaxle is watching him to resent it. Artemis’s stomach warms and tightens, his face flushes hotter than it ever had when he was struggling, and through it all his cock is pleading for friction. The muscles in his thighs tense, but he does not allow Jarlaxle the satisfaction of seeing him try to rut against the bed. He has not sunk so low.

“Be done with it, you son of a bitch,” Artemis breathes, not even sure the drow can hear him.

Jarlaxle moves closer, pressing his hips against the curve of Artemis’s ass and running a hand down Artemis’s spine to press down between his shoulder blades. “I will have you as slow as I please,” he says softly, “and you will be glad of it, trust me.”

Artemis squirms and growls his frustration into the mattress. “Stop this, just fuck me, drow.”

Jarlaxle rolls his hips hard, shoving Artemis down firmly and sliding the shaft of his cock forward in a shallow thrust against his skin. Artemis stifles the beginning of a groan and bites down hard to keep himself quiet.

“Well then, why shouldn’t you want it?” The drow croons, “everything I’ve given you you have liked well enough.”

Artemis breathes hard into the sheets and squirms slightly as he feels Jarlaxle’s hand slide between their bodies to cup his own cock, his palm wet with something warm and slick. When Jarlaxle pushes down and ruts against him again, it feels so beautifully smooth. Artemis grips the sheets harder. His hands are shaking.

“Ask me again,” Jarlaxle says softly moving his hips in slow pulses and sliding his wet fingers through Artemis’s already sweat-dampened hair. “But mean it this time.”

Artemis’s whole body quivers as he struggles to keep himself still against Jarlaxle’s unsubtle goading. He aches with humiliation, hates how desperately he contemplates sliding a hand between his legs and denying Jarlaxle the satisfaction of drawing it out of him slowly. It wouldn’t take long.

“Do what you want.” He pants weakly.

“No,” Jarlaxle purrs, “say it again.”

“ _Fuck me!_ ” His voice wavers and cracks and he sound of it in his own ears is unbearable, but he does not fight back as Jarlaxle grips the nape of his neck and holds him down. Artemis stops breathing when he feels the smooth head of Jarlaxle’s cock press against him, impatient, hard enough to force another stifled growl from his throat. His captor hushes him softly and whispers quiet words of affirmation as the drow slowly pushes inside him.

The breathless cry that escapes Artemis’s throat is one indistinguishable from pain. The drow pauses and Artemis tries to choke back the sound, but his breath comes quick and rough, his body trembling visibly. Jarlaxle slides a hand down the inside of Artemis’s thigh and pushes his legs a bit further apart, steepening the arch of his back by consequence. Artemis groans. The drow continues to ease into him, so very slowly, letting him breathe, letting him adjust to it.

“I expected you to fight harder, but you take it so beautifully,” he commends his plaything tenderly, stroking his hair again and giving him the last inch with a short, hard thrust that makes Artemis flinch. “Have you yet changed your mind about giving me your name? What if I want to call it out for you as I come?”

Artemis holds his silence, his eyes closed and his lips parted as he draws breath after shuddering breath. All he needs is a few good ruts against the sheet, then at least he can suffer whatever Jarlaxle inflicts on him with apathy, if not dignity. Then, at least the slick, searing pressure of Jarlaxle’s cock inside him would not be sending such fierce pulses of heat through his already wrecked and pleading nerves.

“Don’t…” he whispers again, weakly. He inhales, and when Jarlaxle begins to withdraw Artemis breathes a helpless “ah!” His muscles tighten and he feels Jarlaxle shiver in response. The drow slides back in, fucks him slow, fills him with long, tantalizing thrusts and drags a cadence of sobbing moans from his gently rocking body. Artemis moves with him now, supporting his own weight on his outstretched forearms, riding back every time Jarlaxle sinks into him. He no longer cares if his humiliation brings the drow pleasure. He is reduced to nothing as it is, and gods but he _wants_ it.

Finally, he pulls back his left hand and tries to slide it under his body, but Jarlaxle leans forward and catches his wrist.

“No,” the drow says, his voice a low thrum, “not just yet, _jhasin_. I will give it to you, but not just yet.”

Artemis growls sharply through his teeth, a sound that quickly dissolves into a frustrated whimper as Jarlaxle moves inside him again.

“Shh…” he is panting audibly, and Artemis can feel his stomach fluttering. “I could lead you to the edge of the abyss and hold you there for hours. I ought to. But I _want_ to see you undone. I want to take it from you.” With a soft sigh, Jarlaxle pulls out entirely. Artemis’s legs nearly give out, but Jarlaxle keeps a form hold on his hip.

“Up against the headboard, _jhasin_ ,” the drow says quietly.

Artemis realizes distantly what Jarlaxle is calling him, it’s a familiar word, but somehow his overwrought mind does not really comprehend it. He curls his fists in the already-mussed sheets and rocks his hips longingly into the empty air.

“I will not ask you again.”

Artemis pushes himself up onto his knees and all but falls against the solid headboard, gripping the top edge for support as Jarlaxle’s body presses against his back and forces him into position. The drow closes one hand over Aremis’s on the wood, possessively, lacing their fingers together. Artemis swallows thickly, his mouth dry.

Jarlaxle rocks forward, lines up and enters him again, more roughly than the first time, and – gasping – Artemis widens his stance of his own accord, bowing his head and leaning back into it, clenching his jaw. He can feel Jarlaxle’s lips brushing his neck gently, the touch incongruous with the vicious way the drow holds him still and fucks him hard.

When Jarlaxle finally touches him he cries out again, his body tensing up in a way he can tell his captor revels in. The drow slides a palm over his aching cock once, then holds him tight, more taunting than anything, but frayed as his nerves are, even that nearly undoes him. He pushes backward, taking Jarlaxle deeper, pleading.

“I can feel how close you are,” Jarlaxle growls in his ear.

* * *

 

  _“What about after?” The drow asks, deftly securing the last knot around Artemis’s wrist._

_“After what?” Artemis asks flatly, his eyes on the floor._

_“After we…well, after the game,” he enumerates, “do you want me to leave immediately? Do you want your hair stroked? Do we get breakfast?”_

_Artemis rolls his eyes and shrugs, or tries to._

_“Is this too tight?”_

_“It’s fine.”_

_Jarlaxle remains where he is, kneeling patiently on the floor, and waits for a real answer._

_“Stay unless I ask you to leave.” Artemis mutters finally. He is struggling not to let Jarlaxle hear the tremor in his voice, just as he struggled to keep his hands steady as they were bound._

_“I can untie you…” Jarlaxle says softly._

_“Oh, shut up,” Artemis snaps, but the outburst seems to soothe him somewhat. “This is what I want.”_

_Jarlaxle hesitates, but nods his assent and gets slowly to his feet. “Twenty minutes?” He asks, taking slow steps backward to keep Artemis in his line of sight._

_The human nods firmly. “Jarlaxle?”_

_“Yes?”_

_“Don’t break character.”_

_Jarlaxle salutes confidently and pulls the door shut behind him._

* * *

 

 The drow’s breathing catches and goes ragged against the wet skin of Artemis’s neck. He loosens his grip and lets Artemis rut fervently into his hand, pressing tight against his body and fucking him at his own urgent pace.

“Go on” Jarlaxle pants, “fuck, Artemis, come for me…”

Artemis slumps against the headboard, his vision black and his head swimming as he finishes himself out with hard, shallow pushes into Jarlaxle’s palm. The hand closed around his on the headboard grips a little tighter as Jarlaxle thrusts in deep, tenses, and then relaxes with a soft moan, leaning heavily against Artemis’s back. He pulls out slowly, but they both remain still and silent for a moment, chests heaving, slightly dazed. Jarlaxle rests a palm on each of Artemis’s hips and starts to push himself up.

“I didn’t…give you my name, you ass,” Artemis pants finally, shrugging his shoulders a little to nudge Jarlaxle off him.

“I know,” Jarlaxle replies, equally breathless as he lets himself sink backward onto the bed, “I forgot myself for a moment.”

Artemis turns by degrees and sinks down gingerly onto a pillow with his shoulder against the headboard. “I didn’t know you spoke Alzhedo,” he mutters between slowing breaths.

 “I don’t,” Jarlaxle chuckles, leaning back on his elbows and tilting his chin up, “that was just for you, I had to call you _something_.”

Artemis stares at him for a moment, his brow furrowed slightly but his expression unreadable.

“Was that alright?” Jarlaxle asks evenly.

Artemis looks away for a moment, his brow furrowed slightly. “You didn’t have to be so…careful.”

“Compared to _what_?” Jarlaxle demands, smiling a little.

Artemis scowls a little, but without ire. “Next time – ” He cuts himself off and runs a hand through his disheveled hair.

“Next time?” Jarlaxle repeats warily.

“Do not…” Artemis stops again and a bit of the defensiveness fades from his tone as he mutters, “Maybe.”

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone happened to wonder, "jhasin" is the masculine form of "pretty" in Alzhedo.


End file.
